


On Unsteady Wings

by scratchienails



Series: datastorm december 2018 [1]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! VRAINS
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Decapitation, Don't murder your dragon wife, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kidnapping, Kougami Kiyoshi is just the worst, M/M, Magic and Science, Past Child Abuse, Taxidermy, and certainly dont mount her head on the wall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-09-22 13:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17060564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scratchienails/pseuds/scratchienails
Summary: A young dragon-hunter journeys into the Northern Abyss, hoping to save humanity from a decade-long war.But war isn’t the only thing that can endure for ten years.(For DS Dec: Freedom)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is meant to be a one-shot but the later parts are rebelling against me so im splitting it into parts for now. next part will either be tonight or tomorrow, whenever i manage to beat it into submission.

His mother’s head is mounted on the wall.

He visits it often, to stare in morbid fascination at the long, tapered snout, the gleaming silver scales, the marbles replacing her eyes. Her emerald-veined horns curve up and out, sharp points still deadly long after the life has left her stuffed corpse.

She was beautiful, once, and terrifying: a dragon respected all across the continent for her noble bearing and her brilliant mind. Now she’s a mantlepiece.

_Good_ , Ryoken thinks. He remembers little of her, besides the worst. Some nights when he closes his eyes he can see hers burning red as her jaws dripped with human blood, her immense wings filling the room as her claws crushed a man underneath her. He remembers being terrified.

The solar cannons had blown her head from her shoulders, right at the base of her long, thrashing neck.

It was a long time ago, and Ryoken’s over it. Even if that hadn’t been enough to convince him of the intolerable danger of the dragons, the countless atrocities he’s witnessed at the whim of beasts since would have been. But still this grisly reminder remains, his father’s solemn warning to humanity to never again make his mistakes.

Someday, Ryoken thinks, they’ll be able to take his mother down and give her a proper burial, alongside the rest of her vicious species. But for that day to come, they must first win the war.

And to that end, Ryoken has a job to do.

* * *

 

He takes a transport to the Far North. It’s a long, tedious trip, even though his skimmer speeds over the rocky, barren terrain with ease. The sights are dull and the food is bland; he eats what he can forage but for the most part he relies on the rations he’s packed. Alone, because more people means more supplies and more skimmers to carry them all, the simple reports he sends his father over timed intervals are his only contact with the human world. This far North, there is no civilization: only cold, untamed wilderness and the beasts that lurk within it. Day by day, the sky lightens a little less with the dawn, until one morning he can barely see the traces of sunlight on the edge of the horizon. From here on, there will be no day, only the endless night.

Ryoken has always been resistant to the cold, has always been able to see easily through the dark, and could always go the longest without rest. He’s the only human in the world that can hope to reach the end of this place, the Northern Abyss of ancient legend.

There, their researchers assured him, he will find the youngest and weakest of the Ignis. If he can kill it, he might just be able to kill the rest of the blight. The Ignis are the source of the monstrosities that plague their world: the original dragons, the progenitors. They were creatures of myth, born not from flesh and blood but from the elements themselves, and all other dragons were their descendants. So long as the Ignis lived, it didn’t matter how many of the younger beasts they culled, more would still be born, and those scion would gather around their parents, living shields of impenetrable scales and powerful magic.

To kill the hive, they must kill the queen. To get to the queen, they have to get through the hive. The problem is obvious.

But the Dark Ignis has the fewest kin; only one, by their knowledge, but one is enough when that one is capable of single-handedly wiping entire armies off the map with a breath. The beast has earned its name, Unknown, not from a lack of infamy but by the simple fact that so few that witnessed it lived to tell the tale.

They had tried to kill it, of course, but all they have to show for their efforts are the funeral shrouds of the Knights that fell to it. Entire clans of dragon-hunters had been eradicated by its ruthless black magic, and more are sure to fall if something isn’t done about it.

But that isn’t Ryoken’s mission. No, by his father’s command, he has just one goal: before the Dark Ignis can produce more of monstrosities like that thing, Ryoken has to kill it.

Easier said than done; the Dark Ignis has not been seen since Ryoken was eight years-old. It fled back then, to recuperate from its injuries, but there’s been no word since: no sightings, no rumors, no clues.

The Northern Continent is massive, and inhospitable. The Abyss at its center even more so, a crack in the planet so deep even the light of the stars cannot reach the bottom, the stories say.

Ryoken is starting to wish the stories were more specific. The rocky plains and tundra seem to go on forever, only interrupted by sharp, perilous mountains and deep canyons that lead nowhere. He searches fruitlessly for the Abyss, glaring at the compass that insists he’s still moving North.

The constellations suggest differently; if the position of the stars are to be believed, Ryoken has been going in circles—no, a single, massive circle.

What is at the center? Ryoken has a good guess, but getting there is the problem. He’s trapped in an array of some sort, he thinks, that warps the magnetic field. But such an array would have to be large enough to encompass a significant portion of the  _continent._

What is powerful enough to construct such a massive barrier? No, a better question—what could be big enough to actually _build_ it?

Again, he can guess, but he won’t be intimidated.

Casting the useless compass aside, Ryoken sets his eyes on Cygnus the Northern Star and twists his skimmer around.

Nothing changes instantaneously, but something about the atmosphere shifts. A side-effect of resisting the array? Or has he triggered some sort of hidden alarm system?

Ryoken glances up again, checking the position of the stars, only to freeze. He forces the skimmer to a stop and jumps off, his heart starting to race. There’s something wrong with the sky—it’s all _wrong,_ nothing but a sheet of unfamiliar stars. Where did Cygnus go? The distant lights seem to almost be getting _closer._

The sky is falling?

_No._

_That’s not the sky._

Ryoken feels his heart shudder in his chest, blood turning into ice in his veins, as the stars above reveal themselves to be gleaming scales: a sparkling mosaic of black, purple, blue, and white like the smoky edge of the galaxy. Enormous wings beat the air, the rising wind nearly lifting him off his feet, as the very heavens seem to descend upon him.

What he thought to be the moon isn’t a circle at all, but a shining white disk. The beast’s horns aren’t separated at all, and curve around its head in a perfect circle: a radiant halo.

There’s only one dragon with a halo.

_Fuck,_ Ryoken thinks vehemently.

Only years of careful training and muscle memory keep him from fumbling his gun, and he aims for the beast’s torso as he forces anti-magic ammunition into the slot. A dragon this powerful will wear aether-barriers like armor, but with a steady hand and a good eye, his rifle will pierce right through them.

The dragon’s halo shines brighter than the moon framed behind it, and the world spins. The ground disappears from under his feet and Ryoken barely swallows down a shout as he finds himself plummeting through open air. Everything is swirling around him in a nauseating cascade of color and darkness as he tumbles down. He clings to his gun, eyes streaming as he tries to right himself. It’s hopeless, but through his blurred vision he realizes there’s a lake rushing up to meet him, serene waters perfectly reflecting a glorious sky and burning green eyes.

He hits the water, barely registering the rush of freezing cold and the sting on his skin before he blacks out.

* * *

When Ryoken wakes up, he’s feels like he’s been in training for weeks: sore, tired, and filled with self-loathing. He’s lying on something soft but coarse, and he can’t see a thing. In the complete darkness, Ryoken reaches out, and almost immediately his hand crashes into a hard barrier. He twists, only for his shoulder to hit another wall—he’s completely walled in. Heart pounding, he pushes against the walls, first trying either side before turning back to the one directly above him.

It gives with the pressure of his push, lifting relatively easily to let in a rush of cold air and dim light. 

Relieved, Ryoken pushes the rest of what he can now tell is a lid aside and sits up.

He’s lying in a sarcophagus.

_Did I die?_ It’s his first, very logical thought. He dismisses the idea quickly, and then realizes his gun is missing. Which means, even if he didn’t die yet, he’s going to soon.

He levers himself out of the sarcophagus gingerly, wincing as his muscles burn and his back aches. Nothing seems broken, just bruised, but he carefully checks his ribs one by one just to be sure.  

The sarcophagus sits in the middle of what seems to be the poorly-conceived hybrid of a cave and a temple. The floor is polished tile, checkered gray and glittering black, while the ceiling is a mess of stalactites and inky darkness. A collection of strange objects have been piled haphazardly around the room: boxes and barrels, heaps of blankets and pillows, abused furniture and clothing. It looks like someone clumsily tried to order the mess, but didn’t know how: jewelry and silverware have been dumped together alongside an assortment of old-fashioned weapons, while the coats are mixed among the rugs instead of with the mismatched clothes.

It’s difficult to keep track of collection in the dim light. Shining amethyst crystals are creeping out between the tiles of the floor, glowing gently, and larger clusters of radiant crystals erupt along the edges of the cavern, but all their efforts together can’t pierce the inky darkness.

Either he’s still on the Northern Continent, or he’s deep underground. Or, Ryoken supposes, considering what he remembers last, both.

If that really was Unknown that attacked him, there’s a good chance that this place is with the Abyss. The only question, in that case, is why Ryoken is still alive.

“You’re awake.” A masculine voice echoes against the walls, right before the patter of bare feet against the floor reaches Ryoken’s ears. He turns, and green eyes meet his. “Good morning.”

Is there such a thing as morning in a land of eternal night?

A boy slips out of the shadows—a monster that has taken the form of a human teenager. He’s a slip of one, even, svelte and bony, with a head of messy blue hair streaked through with vibrant pink and a delicate, soft face. Ryoken’s father always warned him that the beasts pretended to be beautiful humans, and he knows it well. But this one, however, can hardly be said to be _pretending_. The ivory halo is in plain sight, and the boy’s skin glitters with exposed scales, dusting his cheekbones and sprinkled down his neck. He’s not trying to fool anyone.

Even if he had bothered to hide them, Ryoken wouldn’t be fooled. He’d never mistake those green eyes, clear and glossy like emeralds. Something like nostalgia rises in his chest, and he wonders where he’s seen this boy before.

It doesn’t matter; Ryoken has more important things on his mind. “Why am I alive?” It’s less of a question than it is a demand, a barely restrained note of aggression creeping into Ryoken’s voice. The monster doesn’t so much as blink. His face is blank and expressionless, like a doll.

“I retrieved you from the lake.” Obviously. For the first time, the monster shifts, something like unease flickering in his gaze. It’s gone in an instant, leaving nothing behind. The monster continues, his voice flat but his enunciation firm. “I apologize for assaulting you. I felt someone disturb my barrier and thought it was an intruder. It was my mistake.”

A mistake? There’s been no mistake. Ryoken _is_ an intruder. He narrows his eyes at the monster, his mind racing. Somehow, this beast has misunderstood something about him.

Unsure of how to respond, Ryoken holds his tongue, and Unknown tilts his head, waiting.

Ryoken weighs his options. He’s unarmed, lost, and still hasn’t found the Dark Ignis. His skimmer and the rest of his equipment, including his only method of communicating with the human world, seem to have been left behind wherever he was before this monster…seized him, somehow. But he’s not dead yet, and that means that so far, he’s been lucky. If fortune is all he has left, he might as well push and see just how far that luck can take him.

Ryoken focuses his eyes on those of the beast. “What’s your name?”

Something about the question makes the monster’s face shift, minutely, but again it’s nothing but a flicker. “Yusaku.” He answers placidly. “Kin of Ai.”

“Ai?”

“My parent, the Dark Ignis.”

“Is he here?”

Silence. Of course, it couldn’t be that easy. For a whole minute they regard each other quietly, but Ryoken cannot tell what the beast is thinking at all. He knows dragons have powerful, primordial magic, but it is still strange to know that this rake-thin teenager is the same creature as the stories-tall monstrosity of earlier. It seems so hard to believe, but at the very least, it is not something he is going to forget. Not so long as the halo gleams over the boy's head, making Ryoken's stomach twist with disgust. 

“How are you feeling?” The monster—Yusaku asks. “Are you hurting anywhere?”

Everywhere. Ryoken’s entire body feels bruised and battered, and his limbs ache from joint to tip. But Ryoken will not admit that to the enemy. The monster creeps closer, the white claws of his feet scraping against the stone tiles, until he’s standing at Ryoken’s elbow. He’s shorter than Ryoken now, peering up at his face with those large, striking eyes.

“There’s food, if you’re hungry.” Yusaku nods his head in the direction of what at first glance looks like a pile of furs, but on second inspection is a heap of carcasses: ranging from powerful beasts to domesticated sheep. The smell of raw game creeps into Ryoken’s nose, and he turns away, his intestines churning. He is hungry, an emptiness gnawing its way through his body stomach first, but he’s not _that_ hungry.

The monster watches his face with shameless, scrutinizing eyes. Yusaku frowns, then instead turns to the barrels and boxes. “There’s human food, too.”

It’s a start. Ryoken isn’t sure what is going on or why, but it’s probably for the best to keep his strength up however he can, loathe as he does to accept anything the monster offers him. He gingerly approaches the wooden boxes and pries one open. It’s filled with cured meats: sausages of all kinds, wrapped in cool leaves and rice paper. He checks the next box and finds its been clumsily filled with loaves of bread, some stale, some fresh. Flummoxed, Ryoken checks the final box.

More sausages.

...Just what exactly does this beast consider to be human food? Does he think sausages and bread make up the entirety of the human diet?

Fine, whatever. Ryoken will take what he can get. But he knows better than to eat salted meats and grains without water. The barrels are harder to get into, made of hearty, glossy wood, and when he cracks one open, the cloying scent of wine wafts out.

The next barrel is ale. The final one is rum.

“Do you have anything...non-alcoholic?” Yusaku stares at him blankly. “Like water?”

“I was under the impression that humans like to drink fermented fruit and roots.” Each word is said in a more bland tone than the last, impossible to argue against. Dragons needed to drink very little, so there isn’t necessarily a water source nearby either. “You may have anything you like from what’s gathered here.”

_How thoughtful_ , Ryoken thinks sarcastically, taking another sniff of the rum.

He’s going to die here. Of alcohol poisoning. He’s trapped in the cave of a bloodthirsty beast, and it’s his own thirst that’s going to be the death of him.


	2. Chapter 2

Ryoken takes some time to adjust. Yusaku does not leave, but he doesn’t exactly make a bother of himself either. Instead he watches Ryoken sort through the miscellaneous objects, and it’s a strange sort of regard. There’s no indication that he’s suspicious, or even wary, and yet he doesn’t once look away.

There’s junk everywhere Ryoken looks, some more valuable than the rest, but nothing useful. Only the old weapons catch his eye, and yet they’re cold under his hands and unresponsive to his magic. Like this, there’s no hope of any of them even scraping Yusaku’s hide, and forget about piercing it. A blade must be enchanted thrice before it can even touch a dragon, and the only materials Ryoken has to work with are his blessed bullets.

Less than ideal. Especially since Ryoken didn’t need to kill just _any_ dragon.

But, it does give him an idea.

Turning back to Yusaku, he notes how little the beast has moved. Helping himself to a loaf of relatively fresh bread and the sausages, he’s takes a seat on the sarcophagus.

“Where did you get all this stuff, anyway?” He tries to keep his tone casual. It is a struggle.

“I took it from human settlements. I did not know your preferences, so I just took everything.”

Ryoken spits out the bread he’s been chewing and barely contains a snarl. “You stole from humans?”

“I just took what they left behind after they ran away.” Yusaku says, very reasonably even though what he’s saying isn’t reasonable at all. “I would have asked, but everyone was screaming too loud.”

There’s a lot there that Ryoken has to sort through, and only once he’s banished the image of the strongest dragon in currently known existence politely requesting townsfolk abandon their homes and relinquish their valuables does he realize something about what Yusaku said is terribly off.

“...You got all of this for _me?"_

“Yes.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“I dropped you in a lake.” Impossibly, there’s a notable tone of guilt lingering in the plain statement.

It almost sounded like Yusaku brought Ryoken into the Abyss, checked him for injuries, and fed him because he _felt bad._

Which is absurd. Either this is a trick, or…

Or Ryoken can use this. He checks his ammunition pouch, and thinks about what he needs to get out of this alive. “Then, could you get some other stuff for me?”

Yusaku peers at his face curiously. “What do you need?” His eyes are stunningly clear and honest, but Ryoken knows better than to fall for that. This dragon seems to have little to no coherent knowledge of human culture or necessities, so it’s easy to mix in a few odd requests amongst the actual supplies. Some devilsbane, a remnant wisp or two, bicorn meat—the ingredients for a powerful enchantment are extensive and difficult to obtain, but the longer Ryoken can get this dragon out of its lair the better.

If the dragon finds any of the requests odd, he doesn’t show it. Instead, Yusaku reaches up his sleeve and tugs out a flailing little creature. A lizard of some sort, though it’s hard to tell as it struggles back and forth; it is black and purple with bright orange eyes, and has too many legs.

“Ai,” Yusaku says firmly, and the lizard goes still. Kind of like Ryoken’s brain, which promptly short-circuits.

There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this, he’s sure: Yusaku named his pet lizard after his parent or the lizard is some sort of bizarre dragon communication device.

“Yusaku-chan! Why’d you wake me up?” A surprisingly loud voice erupts from the lizard’s mouth, whining.

“I’m going out.” Yusaku replies simply, sitting the lizard in the palm of his hand, as Ryoken’s brain reboots. “Look after our guest.”

The Dark Ignis is very small. The almighty Ignis, the cause of all human strife, the enemy of all civilized life, could fit in a wallet. Its tiny yellow eyes narrow at him as it skitters up Yusaku’s arm to perch on his shoulder, with its little head bobbing up and down.

“He’s your parent?” Ryoken stares. How…exactly had that worked? There’s a clear issue in size, right?

“Of course!” The voice is no less disconcerting the second time, as the Ignis sits back on his hindmost legs, leaving a pair to wave in the air. “You may call me Ai-sama! Or Ai-dono! Or, fath—” A deep growl shakes the entire cavern, drowning out the chirpy voice. Ryoken barely manages to keep on his feet, sent stumbling by the sudden shuddering of the floor. Yusaku doesn’t so much as budge, but the little lizard glances nervously at Yusaku’s face, and venomous green eyes glare back. “On second thought, just Ai is fine.”

Ryoken takes a deep breath and tries to ignore how he can hear the blood pounding in his veins. He can’t allow himself to be shocked by this monster’s raw power. This is an opportunity he can’t pass up.

“May I?” He extends a hand, his palm held up hopefully towards the apocalyptic salamander. Yusaku hands over the Ignis with little fuss. His face is so still, he’s not even blinking.

It’s light as a feather and cold against Ryoken’s palm. He expects to feel needle like claws against his skin, but instead he finds the Ignis’s feet are more like an amphibian’s than a reptiles, with bulbous and sticky toes. Under his steely gaze, the mythical dragon grins, revealing a mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth.

“I will go retrieve the required items.” Yusaku states, and then the whole room crackles with violet energy. It’s lightless but not dark, as before Ryoken’s eyes clusters of starry scales crawl over Yusaku’s human skin. The shining halo seems to grow, white as lit magnesium and three-times as blinding.

Ryoken doesn’t know when he closed his eyes, but when he opens them, he’s face to face with a legend. Unknown is nothing short of colossal in size, with wings wide enough to form a glittering night sky over their heads. He’s slender, for a dragon, all sleek edges and elegant slopes; like a sharpened blade, with just a glance one could tell he is deadly.

When his jaw opens, hot breath rushes over Ryoken’s face. He does not flinch, holding his ground even as he remembers vividly how his mother could crush bones between her teeth. Just one bite, and this monster could end his life.

The thought doesn’t scare him at all. Instead, all he feels his a hot rush of indignant rage, but there’s nowhere for the frustration to go.

The cavern itself seems to warp around the monster’s looming figure, the shadows clinging to his scales as he blends into them, dissipating like mist. In an instant, Yusaku is gone.

The Ignis in on his hand eyes him curiously. Ryoken stares back, his mind racing.

Ten years ago, there had been violent skirmishes with the Ignis and their kin all over the planet. Both sides sustained losses, but most telling had been the Battle of Winter Ridge, where their own knights fell the Dark Ignis. Ryoken had been too focused on sneaking glances at his father’s test subjects to pay the news much heed at the time, but since then he had watched the recordings countless times. The dragon on screen had been more of a cloud of dark, poisonous vapor than solid, and past that was writhing black sludge. A hideous atrocity that destroyed everything in its incoherent path; like a plague, it had no discretion and no mercy. Its roars had been filled with incomprehensible rage, until that gave way to desperate whines and ragged breaths. It had not been an easy battle, but their weapons tore it to shreds. Eventually it had been forced to flee, still filling the air with its whining keen.

The victory didn’t last for long.

Because Ryoken, nothing but a kid at the time, let one the test subjects loose. It was dumb, and irresponsible. Even years later, just the thought of what he did back then fills him with shame.

He had been tricked by the beast’s human face, its pleading eyes; like a scared child, it had been cowering behind the blessed bars of its containment cage. Unable to resist its tears, Ryoken had been completely enthralled and visited it everyday. He would spend every free moment sneaking around behind his father’s back so he could talk to the little beast.

It never really spoke back. It didn’t need to, because like a moth to a flame, Ryoken was too entranced to stop.

Just days before the date of its dissection, Ryoken set it free. And the Ignis struck, this time a concentrated attack upon their headquarters.

_Like father, like son,_ everyone had whispered, when the dust settled and the bodies were counted.

It was a stupid, childish mistake. It cost the lives of many good people. He had never been properly punished for it.

Ryoken closes his fist around the Dark Ignis, crushing it easily in between his fingers. It squeaks like a child’s toy as he feels something crack, and then goes entirely limp. Numb with disbelief, Ryoken uncurls his fingers and lets it drop to the floor, and watches it die.

It can’t be that easy. He nudges the body with his boot, but it doesn’t even twitch.

When he steps on it, it pops. Nothing but a puddle of ooze and black blood.

* * *

 

It takes a long time to find the exit. He doesn’t know how long he spends wandering the labyrinth of tunnels surrounding the cavern he woke up in, but he loses all sense of direction not long in. There’s no longer any sort of light, not even enough for his keen eyes, so he stumbles slowly along the walls tries to map the maze in his head.

For all he knows, this is simply another array. Would _the_ Unknown really leave without making sure his captive couldn’t?

But eventually, there’s a shift in the stale air, and the slightest hint of a fresh breeze has him striding forward with restored confidence. The air becomes fresher and fresher with each step, until he’s almost certain he’s finally left the caves and is in the open. But his vision is still nothing but black, even as he stares stubbornly upwards.

Is this the bottom of the abyss? There are jagged walls in each direction, but he can hear the howling of wind as it weaves through the canyon. There seems to be only one way up.

But it is not an easy climb. In the complete darkness he struggles to find handholds as he clings the to rugged rock, and each meter up is hard-won and agonizing. When he can’t find anything to grip he has to dig his fingers nails-first into solid stone.

For the first time, he wishes he hadn’t brought his steel nail-file on this shitty mission.

After what feels like a torturous eternity, there’s the faintest sparkle of light far above him. Despite the aching of his limbs and the exhaustion hazing his thoughts, Ryoken grins. With new energy he drags himself upwards, chasing after the starlight.

And then a thunderclap rings through the air, louder than almost anything he’s ever heard before. Even the air itself seems to quiver with the force of it, and Ryoken is left choking down curses as once more the stars plummet towards him.

_Like a meteor shower_ , some vague part of Ryoken’s mind whispers, as the monstrosity nosedives downwards. It all happens in less than a second, not even time to dig into the rock and cling for dear life as the beast rushes past him. The recoil of the wind is too much, and with his heart in his throat, Ryoken is blown into the open air.

Then he plummets.

He hits the ground almost instantaneously. One moment he was just just starting to fall, and the next he’s roughly smashing into stone tiles. His head rings sharply as he struggles back up, only to pause in shock.

Like a reloaded save file, he finds himself right back where he started: the crystal cavern. Scrambling back onto his feet, he wants to scream. Deep inside his lungs is a frustrated yell, but horror keeps him silent.

But beyond the horror is fury.

The miserable cave is the not quite the same as when he left it: new items are haphazardly scattered around as if they were just dropped in. Dropped in, just like he was _twice_.

Teleportation.

That’s a problem.

“Ryoken.” He tenses, his name echoing off the walls. The dragon knows his name. Alright. Turning on his heel, he watches Yusaku melt out of the shadows, the darkness still clinging to his scales. His true form is long gone, but he’s not quite taken human form either. Two shimmering wings cut through the air behind him, constructed more of magic than flesh and bone. A heavy tail slithers over the floor behind him, and glossy purple crystals peek out of his skin, forming ridges down his back. “My apologies. I was not expecting you to be there.” Yusaku’s voice is not quite as bland as before. If anything, he sounds tense. “Why were you trying to leave?”

Ryoken takes a few wary steps back. Among the new additions to the cavern, he can see the ingredients he asked for, but they do him no good like this, not with Yusaku’s unwavering gaze catching his every twitch.

Tilting his head, eyes wide and unblinking, Yusaku calls, “Ai.” The silence in the cavern is deafening. The tail beats against the tiles, just once, but the entire room shifts with it. “Where is Ai?”

Ryoken is going to die. But at least he is going to die gloating. “I killed him.” He says simply, eyes set on the beast’s, waiting for those pretty features to warp. “I came here to kill him.” And at the very least, he’s triumphant. His father will be proud, even if Ryoken isn’t going to live to tell him. “I’m a hunter. Why else would I be here?”

Something about Yusaku’s stoicism seems to crumple. He doesn’t seem to quite know what to do with his human face, his mouth twitching uselessly and his brow scrunching.

It’s almost funny. Ryoken didn’t know dragons could look heartbroken. Something about those bright eyes turning wet is almost nostalgic, and suddenly none of it feels right anymore. He can’t keep smiling.

“ _I told you so._ ” A deep, guttural voice rumbles through the cave, and for a brief, unthinking moment Ryoken swears he can feel his bones rattling along with it. Black sludge begins to rise up through the cracks in the floor, and Ryoken curses inwardly.

Of course killing an Ignis isn’t so easy. But he had been hopeful. It had been too good to pass up.

“I know.” Yusaku says, listlessly.

Had it all been a test? Shit. That, he supposes, is what he gets for thinking himself to be so clever.

He expects to die right there, as the Dark Ignis reforms into a writhing mass, as eerie black mist thickens the air and makes Ryoken’s head swim. He searches for a weapon, something to hold as he goes down fighting, but the lights are going out. Everything disappears in the blackness, except the stars in Yusaku’s wings, and the white halo hanging over his head.

It’s quiet.

“Forget it.” Yusaku turns away, a mass of rippling stars in the lightless room, and storms off, taking the Ignis with him.

Ryoken releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in, his limbs shaking with adrenaline he didn’t know how to use. He can’t see anything anymore, but he’s quickly getting used to that.

He tries to take a step, back in the direction of the life-saving ingredients carelessly dumped around the room, only for his feet to catch on something. Gravity does the rest of the work.

Reacquainted with the floor once more, Ryoken peels his cheek of the tile and turns on his back. Something digs painfully into his shoulder blade. “I’m getting real sick of falling.”

Unsurprisingly, nobody answers him.

 

 

 

* * *

 

Check out Celepom's awesome art of this chapter [here](http://celepom.tumblr.com/post/182669268642/backtracking-a-bit-inspired-by-chapter-2-of-on)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is not proof-read at all  
> also, this chapter alludes to self-harm. nothing graphic, though.  
> also?? Big thanks to everyone for their support for this story! I love reading your comments

 

Ryoken’s father fell in love with a dragon. They had been a happy couple, once, but dragons are not people. They are beasts, slaves to their instincts and their infernal magicks. No matter how docile they seem, no matter how much intelligence they seem to wield, there will inevitably come a day when that dragon loses control.

That is why, if he wants to survive this, Ryoken needs a weapon. He forces as much blood as he can out of the fresh bicorn meat, gathering the inky blue liquid in a wooden bowl. He grinds the bristles of devilsbane into a paste against the tiles, mixes it with yew and juniper. Then he unbinds the leather of a blade’s hilt and packs the paste underneath. In blood, he etches runes over the aged leather, struggling to keep his strokes clean and even in the darkness. Laying the old sword down on the tiles, he continues painting, spreading from the inside out a web of spiraling runes and symbols.

For the first blessing, he uses a circle as the array’s base: for flexibility, for ease, for perfection. A strong, reliable base, but not nearly powerful enough on its own. He traces the final product with the remnant wisp essences, dipping his fingers into the drifting blue lights and dragging them over each dried line of blood.

The array pulses with dim light, running from the edges to the center of the circle: a beating heart of magic. The blade burns against Ryoken’s hand as he lifts it from the center, the blessings coursing up the steel and hissing at the press of his impure flesh.

This is why he favors guns, never having to come in direct content with the holy magic, but under these circumstances he welcomes the burn, grounds himself with it. It’s proof that the blessing works.

But that’s only the first; he will have to repeat the process as many times as he can before his captors decide to kill him. The thought is daunting, but the weight of a weapon at his side eases his nerves.

It’s been three days, and Ryoken is reaching the end of his nebulous tolerance. Three days of empty silence, of still darkness, of wondering when they would come to put an end to him. His captors do not appear before him, and neither does anyone else. Ryoken is completely alone, trapped in unfamiliar isolation, with nothing but his thoughts and the rest of Yusaku’s stolen hoard.

Three days have nothing on six months—the pathetic thought occurs to him, but he forces it down. Ryoken’s not a child anymore, he’s not so immature to think that the pain of beasts and humans could ever be considered equivalent.

But considering himself human—that might very well be too generous. The burn of the blade is proof enough of that, even if he didn’t have to pull his file from his belt and wear down his bludgeoning claws. There’s a telltale ache in his scalp, just above his temples and creeping down to his jaw, that warns him that there’s more to come.

With the familiar itch of frustration crawling over his skin, Ryoken feels along his shoulder. Each centimeter of soft flesh is a relief, right up until his fingertips brush over something hard and cold. Feeling nothing besides the yawning emptiness in his chest, he digs his blunted nails under it and rips it off. It’s almost painless, and only bleeds a little, just another scab to join the others peppering his shoulders and neck.

“Yikes, kid.”

The voice comes as such a shock that Ryoken is lurching to his feet, untested sword in hand and brandished before it even fully registers. Two yellow eyes open on the far wall, oblong and uncanny.

It’s not just the Dark Ignis. Underneath those lamp-like eyes is another pair, insidious green and slit-pupiled.

He hides the nail-file behind his back, an action borne of more muscle memory than reason.

It’s stupid, especially since what he should be hiding is the weapon. But Yusaku’s eyes are already set on it, his face turned to the side curiously as he emerges from Ai’s ink.

Things are quiet for a moment. Light starts to filter back into the room, the crystals igniting as Yusaku looks at him.

Ryoken can’t bear anymore silence. “Finally, here to kill me?” He hefts up the blade, bringing the sharp tip to hover before Yusaku’s frail chest. It’s a laughably pathetic gesture, and surely they both know it, because Yusaku barely even seems to acknowledge its existence. He steps forward like it’s not there at all, and instead of sinking into his flesh, the tip scrapes along his clavicle like a fork against a plate, until it sits atop his shoulder and he’s staring into Ryoken’s face, completely unharmed.

“No.” Yusaku says, voice plain as his tail flicks against the floor. The slight movement jostles something loose in Ryoken’s head, and faint memories of his mother break free. Her tail used to flick like that, curling at the end, whenever she rolled her eyes. Every time his father or the assistants said something particularly ignorant, every time their inexperience with the world compared to her immense knowledge showed.

The dismissive gesture, in combination with the suddenly clear picture of his mother’s mischievous, _human_ face burning in his thoughts has Ryoken’s stomach rolling. Feeling sick and insulted, he drops the blade and jerks himself away. It clatters to the floor at Yusaku’s feet.

He didn’t remember his mother—not as anything more than a mantlepiece, he _didn’t,_ except he did. A woman with fiercely intelligent eyes and gentle hands, who would cup his face and kiss his nose. A dragon who held impossibly still as he scrambled up her back, who steadied him with her snout every time he faltered. A crazed beast that paused at the sight of him, just long enough for his father to—

“Why?” Ryoken hisses out from between his clenched teeth. Nausea is creeping up his throat, and between it and the suddenly ragged edge of his thoughts, he’s not entirely sure what he’s asking. Why did Yusaku let him live, not just once, but _thrice?_

Why is he _here?_

“Why would I kill you?” Yusaku’s eyes stare into his, infuriating in how they don’t waver, not even a speck of uncertainty or struggle. There’s not so much as a trace of violence in his face, as if his delicate face was carved from ice, as if all the power in the world couldn’t overwhelm him.

It’s such a stupid question that it has Ryoken seething. He knows better than to try and converse with monsters, than to look for reason in bestial minds. And yet, the words burst out of him. “Because if you don’t, I’m going to kill _you!_ ” The desperate, anguished edge to his own voice startles him. Taking a sharp, shallow breath, he struggles to swallow down all the frayed feelings crawling up his throat. It’s not like him to lose his cool. It’s not like him to be anything but cold, but in the face of Yusaku’s heatless face, he finds his blood boiling. That impassive, unshifting expression doesn’t even so much as flinch at his declaration, and Ryoken can barely keep from grinding his teeth together. “You think I can’t?” That’s it, isn’t it? He’s not enough of a threat to even warrant killing.

“I don’t lose.” Yusaku’s voice is steady, and his eyes drift to the weapon at their feet, slow and languid. “And I especially don’t lose to hunters.”

When his eyes rise back up, there’s challenge in that gaze.

Ryoken thinks of the aching of his skull, of the talons he filed down, of the _something_ _else_ he feels constantly broiling under his skin that he has never dared to touch. He thinks about what it would be like to use it all.

He wonders if he could go head-to-head with a legend, no weapons or tricks, if he just—

Such animalistic urges. His father would be so disappointed.

The thought of his father is like being doused with cold water: a sudden shock that leaves behind a familiar, reliable rigidity. He’s losing control _,_ he realizes, just like his father always feared he would.

Ryoken takes a deep breath, focusing on the cold air in his lungs, letting it settle in his bones. When he lets it go, he pulls up to his full height, back straight and feet set.

“There’s a first time for everything.”

He doesn’t lose either, not to monsters.

And especially not to himself.

* * *

It gets easier, after that. He expects Yusaku to confiscate his new blade, or at least the blessing materials.

He doesn’t.

But once more, he also doesn’t leave. After three days of nothing, Yusaku is suddenly a permanent fixture in the room. The unsettling presence of the Dark Ignis comes and goes, but Yusaku settles on top of a battered table, his tail curled around him and his claws scratching the finish. Black magic circles spin around his fingertips as he remotely adjusts arrays, green eyes focused on something Ryoken cannot see.

It’s oddly infuriating, to be monitored and yet completely ignored. Even as Ryoken starts on the secondary blessing, Yusaku doesn’t even so much as glance in his direction. Even when he purposefully scatters jewelry about, knocks over pots, and even breaks a few plates, he doesn’t even so much as receive a glance. There’s a temptation to start throwing things at him, javelins and cutlery, but there’s an equally childish desire to _talk,_ too.

Ryoken’s not used to being quiet, not for so long. Even on his lonely journey up North, he at least still had his communications with his father. Back home, there’s always another speech to make, another group to win over to their cause, another willfully ignorant naysayer that doesn’t understand their organization.

He peers over his shoulder at Yusaku again. “Teleportation is supposed to be impossible.” No reply comes, but green eyes look back at him. A little encouraged, Ryoken continues. “Not even the most advanced blends of magic and technology have come even close.” And they _had_ tried. Teleportation, if only they could obtain it, would completely change the course of the war. No longer would they have to move in small, stealthy groups, praying to slip under the notice of any winged monstrosities patrolling the skies. They’d be able to move both people and supplies, instead of losing a demoralizing portion each time.

And yet, Unknown somehow wielded that power so casually, using it to dump one hunter into lakes and cells, as if it isn’t even difficult. Is it an array? A spell? Something unique to the Dark Dragons, that could seemingly travel through shadows and melt in between cracks?

Or is Unknown so powerful that he could simply break the very laws of their reality?

Silence, again. But Yusaku is still paying attention.

“Research into the matter gained traction about ten years ago.” He only says it because he’s fishing, but the importance of those words hits him mere seconds after they’ve left his mouth.

About ten years ago, in the wake of his mother’s massacre, his father obtained six invaluable test subjects: each was an incredibly young dragon of unusual power. Shortly after, for the first time in hundreds of years, the Ignis reemerged from seclusion and began their personal assault on humanity.

Ryoken knows none of those events were coincidence, but he never actually considered the fact that his father’s research into theoretical teleportation was in the same time period.

On the other side of the room, for the first time since Ryoken attempted to end the Ignis, Yusaku’s face twists. It’s not even a gradual shift; one moment he’s placid, and the next his expression is completely warped with fury, his sharp teeth tightly clenched together and his pupils like pin pricks in his venomous eyes.

Ryoken can’t help but smile at that, finally feeling a bit satisfied. He keeps that vicious look in the back of his mind as he refocuses on his blessings.

So, even creatures like this have soft spots.

* * *

 

After the third blessing, which is much easier to perform with the advantage of _light,_ he wants to try the blade on Yusaku’s hide once more. But the handle burns his hand exponentially more painfully than before, leaving his skin blistering, and Ryoken figures it’s time to call it a day. Or night.

Any sense of time for him has long since evaporated.

But Yusaku is still crouched over on the table, no signs of stopping. And Ryoken is not entirely sure how comfortable he is with sleeping in the same room as a dragon, even one as seemingly uninterested in him as Yusaku.

During the three days and nights he spent alone in this cavern, he had settled against a wall on a pile of dubious rugs. Too keyed up to relax, the hours of rest had been spent in a restless doze. He doesn’t think Yusaku’s presence will ease that paranoia in the slightest.

Nevertheless, he carefully sheathes the blade and ties it to his waist. He packs up the materials that remain as loudly as he can, but Yusaku doesn’t get the message until he loudly clears his throat. The dragon peaks his direction, and Ryoken stares at him meaningfully.

Even then, it takes Yusaku a moment. “Do you wish to rest?”

_Obviously._

Apparently understanding, Yusaku bit his lip, canines dangerously gripping the flesh between sharp points. “Would it be alright if I stayed?”

_Isn’t this your place?_ Ryoken wants to reply, barely holding back the sarcasm. He’s hardly in any position to dictate where Yusaku can and cannot sleep. Still, he wants to snarl _no_ , but the thought leaves a bad taste in his mouth. It feels too much like admitting to weakness.

And there’s something strangely hopeful about the way Yusaku looks at him then. It’s…curious, and for some reason, something in his stomach flutters. Scientific curiosity, probably, in how well these overgrown reptiles had learnt to mimic human emotions.

So he starts to settle down, as far from Yusaku as he can place himself and with the sword practically in hand. But just as he leans back against the wall, he feels something skitter over his shoulder. Tensing, he narrows his eyes at the lizard creeping its way towards his ear. Unabashed, it settles a few sticky feet against his earlobe and begins to whisper.

“You should get back in the sarcophagus.” Its voice is unpleasant to the ears, and its suggestion even more so. “Don’t give me that look, it’s for your own safety. Yusaku can be a restless sleeper. So, when you sleep, make sure you stay in there, alright?”

Disgusted, Ryoken slaps the creature against the wall like a bug, completely unsatisfied by how it squishes under his hand. Unwilling to heed its advice, but equally unwilling to subject himself to more of its presence, Ryoken goes over to the coffin in question. He looks for a trap of some kind, like a sealing lock or a hidden torture array, but there’s nothing of the sort.

Instead, on closer inspection, the sarcophagus is carved with intricate runes, forming an extensive protection spell. Ryoken wonders what sort of sleep behavior could possibly warrant such measures, and gets in the coffin. It closes over his head, but when he tests it with a simple push, it opens as easily as it did before. Slightly eased, he relaxes against the furred coats he brought in, and waits.

A long time passes, before he feels the room quiver, something huge and heavy hitting the floor. Yusaku’s true form, he imagines, and the necessity of the coffin becomes abundantly clear. Murderous intentions or not, just by turning over in his sleep Yusaku could crush him into pulp in that form.

But it really starts much later, when something begins to wildly thump against the tiles. A tail, Ryoken suspects, sheltered in the still darkness of the sarcophagus. Then there’s the telltale sounds of something large sweeping through the air—wings.

Agitated growls and snarls begin to fill the air, only interrupted by sharp keens and shuddering whines that are awfully, horribly familiar. Ryoken feels a long-forgotten compulsion to cover his ears and curl into a ball, but forces it down as something strikes against the sarcophagus with enough force to make the earth shudder.

Outside, Yusaku thrashes and wails and roars like a wounded, agonized beast, and Ryoken stares at the lid of the coffin, unseeing.

A dragon with nightmares.

Great.

* * *

 

 

 

Check out Celepom's awesome art from this chapter [here!](https://twitter.com/SallyVinter/status/1092270726382407681)

 

 

 


End file.
